


Solitude

by deansdirtybb



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Breathplay, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Panty Kink, minor pain kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deansdirtybb/pseuds/deansdirtybb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in early Season 7, probably somewhere between episode 1 and 2.  Cas is dead, Sam’s wall is broken…even Baby is wrecked.  Dean’s got a complicated mess to deal with in every direction he turns and he just needs a simple moment to himself.  So he finds a quiet room, pulls out his pink silk panties and gets lost in the sensation of his own body and his private kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitude

**Title** :  Solitude   
**Author** : [](http://deansdirtybb.livejournal.com/profile)[**deansdirtybb**](http://deansdirtybb.livejournal.com/)  
**Artist** : [](http://karadin.livejournal.com/profile)[**karadin**](http://karadin.livejournal.com/) [ARTLINK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042192)  
**Pairing** :  None really…Solo Dean with mentions of past Dean/Sam and Dean/Cas   
**Rating** :  NC-17   
**Words** :  3443   
**Warnings** :  Masturbation, panty kink, mentions of wincest and destiel, mentions of past Het, minor pain kink, slight mention of breath play, fingering   
**Disclaimer** :  I’m just borrowing these characters (if only these pretty, pretty boys were actually mine).  I make no money here; my only profit is the joy and ruined panties of my readers.   
**Spoilers** :  Specifically early Season 7, mentions of past seasons, but nothing after Season 7   
**Summary** :  Set in early Season 7, probably somewhere between episode 1 and 2.  Cas is dead, Sam’s wall is broken…even Baby is wrecked.  Dean’s got a complicated mess to deal with in every direction he turns and he just needs a simple moment to himself.  So he finds a quiet room, pulls out his pink silk panties and gets lost in the sensation of his own body and his private kink.   
**AN #1** :  This is my fic for the Reverse Bang, inspired by the gorgeous work of [](http://karadin.livejournal.com/profile)[**karadin**](http://karadin.livejournal.com/).  Be sure to drop by [her page ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042192)and leave some love.  
**AN#2** :  Thanks to my amazing betas, [](http://katstark.livejournal.com/profile)[**katstark**](http://katstark.livejournal.com/) and [](http://sleepypercy.livejournal.com/profile)[**sleepypercy**](http://sleepypercy.livejournal.com/).  I couldn’t have done this without you lovely ladies  <3  
  
Feel free to leave me comments...I love when you love me ;)   
  
  
  
  
  
** Solitude  **   
  
Dean’s been up against it before; hell, feels like he and Sam have had to save the world damn near annually.  But this time he doesn’t have Sam, at least not at peak capacity given the broken wall and hallucinations.  No Cas either; all Dean has left of him is a blood-stained trench coat in the Impala’s trunk.  Even poor Baby had taken more than her share of abuse.   Putting her back together had been bittersweet; the Impala was so much more than a car to him and his brother.  The labor had occupied his brain temporarily, but even hearing her purr isn’t enough to quiet Dean’s mind this time.   Dean needs desperately to get out of his head, if only for a few moments.  He can only think of one way to accomplish that.

  
Dean’s always been a tactile guy.  His sense of touch guides him and he uses touch and action to communicate rather than words that always seem to fall short.  It’s also been his best escape.  Sam calls it a “coping mechanism,” but Dean just knows when his head’s all screwed up, his body makes sense and when his body feels good, he feels better.  Right now, everything’s so fucking complicated and miserable:  Sam so broken, Cas gone, and a  whole new monster on the loose that they have no idea how to kill.  Dean just wants a simple moment, wants to focus on his body and get out of his head.   
  
  
Sam and Bobby are out chasing down a possible lead to some info on the Leviathans, hopefully leading to a way to gank the sons-a-bitches, and Dean has been left alone in Bobby’s house.  He takes Baby into town and buys a bottle of whiskey, the good stuff, and makes one more quick stop before heading back out the deserted road to Singer Salvage.  When the rusty gate comes up, he drives past.  He has no way of knowing when Sam or Bobby might return, and Dean just needs some real time alone for this.  The risk of interruption, the awareness of another human presence in the house, would only spoil his ability to totally lose himself singularly to bodily sensation.   
  
  
Just about 2 miles down the bumpy road is the old farmhouse Bobby’s last neighbor had abandoned after watching Bobby put an Okami through the wood chipper.  Dean pulls Baby around to the back and grabs his duffel from the trunk.  It’s easy to jimmy the back door open and Dean wanders through vacated the house.  The furniture remains, even some dusty knickknacks that had been left behind in the previous owner’s hurry to escape the weirdness.   
  
  
At the end of the hall is what must have been the guest room.  It is decidedly feminine: dusty pink coverlet draped over the old sagging mattress of the metal framed bed, lacy curtains hanging in the window and an oval throw rug covered in pink roses to the side of the bed.  A wry smile tugs at Dean’s lips as he takes in the rose and beige patterned wallpaper.  It’s perfect.   
  
  
He drops his duffel at the foot of the bed and slips out of his leather jacket draping it over the back of the old wooden chair in the corner.  Dean has every intention of dragging this out.  Savoring every single second.  He bends to untie and loosen the laces of each boot and steps out of them, reaches down and removes his socks, wiggling his toes on the soft faded rug.  He slips each button of his flannel through its eyelet letting the soft material glide down his arms before he hangs it on the closet doorknob.  Dean grips the hem of his t-shirt, pulls it over his head and drops it on the seat of the chair where his jacket hangs.   
  
  
His eyes flutter closed as he brings a hand up to the defined muscles of his abdomen.  Calloused fingertips caress over pale freckled skin as he gently slides his hand up, making a trail towards a pebbling nipple.  He catches his full lower lip between his teeth as he pinches the dusky bud.  It feels good, his mind starting to turn off as his brain tunes into the pleasant sting and gentle tease.  The blood starts its southern turn, but he’s not hard yet.   
  
  
Dean bends and opens his bag.  He doesn’t even need to look inside to know when he’s found what he’s looking for.  Fingers close around lace and silk and draw the pink panties out of their hiding place.  The words _Rhonda Hurley_ , whisper through his brain without snagging any ground; this no longer has a single thing to do with her, it hasn’t for years.  This has nothing to do with anyone but Dean and his own body.  The original pair had long since worn through and found their way into the garbage.  Dean would sneak into lingerie stores looking for that same blushy silk.  Once he had lucked out and pulled up the skirt of one of his bar pick-ups to discover an identical pair.  He’d tucked them into his back pocket right away, using his tongue and lips on her clit to such distraction that she never even noticed she returned to the bar naked under that short skirt.   
  
  
The top button on his jeans is done away with quickly and he pops the remaining buttons without hesitation.  He’s gone commando for the day, waiting for the sweet contrast of silk after his dick has spent the day rubbing denim.  He drapes his pants over the foot of the bed and lies back against the mattress.  The cover is one of those old ones favored by grandmothers, where the pattern is actually the raised tickling loops of terry cloth and the lines are the receded silky cotton.  The difference in textures on the naked skin of his back is a deliciously unexpected addition to the situation and he twists his torso back and forth several times to fully appreciate it.   
  
  
Dean bends, bringing his feet up and putting them through the legs of the panties.  The lace edging grazes his skin, brushes the golden hairs on his legs and raises goosebumps as the fabric goes over his knees.  He slows down, letting the silk stretch over the muscles in his thighs, feels the caress of it there and anticipates the way it will feel over the swell of his balls and the sensitive skin of his cock.   
  
  
  
  
His breath quickens and he can feel his pulse race.  He swallows as his thick fingers grip the fabric around his bowed legs and bring it up inch by inch.  Dean plants his feet on the bed and lifts his hips, pulling the panties into place over the curve of his ass, and brings his thumbs to the front to stretch the fabric over his balls and the half hard form of his dick.    
  
  
A breathy moan escapes his mouth at the first press of silk against his cock.  The lace tickles at his hip bones and he can feel the stretch of the smooth fabric across his backside.  He bites into his lip again, hands fisting in the blanket as he forces himself to delay the gratification of touch.     
  
  
Dean has a whole history of dirtybadwrong, so it shouldn’t have been any surprise when Rhonda Hurley forcing him to slip on her pink silk panties had gone straight to his dick.  That first time her suggestion turned insistence humiliated him flaccid and she’d clucked her tongue.  She’d leaned down holding the panties for him to step into.  As she’d drawn them up his legs, she’d leaned in to whisper into his ear, “Gonna be so hot, baby.  Wanna see that cock hard, wanna watch you get my panties all wet.”  He’d quickly fulfilled that wish and Dean had never felt anything sweeter than her mouth surrounding him through the second skin of the wet silk.   
  
  
His hips begin to undulate against the pink comforter as if out of his conscious control.  When he can no longer take it, his hands roam his naked chest again to tease his body with every delicious sensation except the one it craves the most.  He scratches blunt nails up his abs and over the tattoo on his left pec; shivers track up his skin and the toned muscles underneath twitch.  His right hand finds the opposite nipple and twists it, hard this time, and sparks ignite along the nerve endings through his spine and registering at the base.  His left hand stretches up his neck, surrounding and briefly pressing his carotid enough to slow the blood for just a second and every sensation intensifies for that brief moment.     
  
  
His cock is hard now, he can feel it straining the delicate fabric.  His right hand skips down the dip in the center of his abs, fingers tickling through the trail of hair, until he reaches the waistband of the panties.  A throaty groan punches from him as he finally allows himself to caress the head of his dick through the fabric.   
  
  
This is what brings him back to this every time, the dual sensation of silk stretched under his fingers covering the hard length of his prick and the feeling of all that sleek fabric against every sensitive nerve ending as he rubs himself through the pink panties.  There’s no mirror in this old room, but Dean knows what he looks like in this state.  Cock hard, rosy feminine fabric hugging him tight and the glossy material gaining an extra sheen as he begins to seep precome against the silk.  He looks dirty, utterly debauched, needy.     
  
  
_ “Beautiful as sin,” Rhonda purred into his ear, her manicured fingernails gently scratching up the front of the panties, teasing his quickly growing erection through the thin material.  Dean sucked in a breath, his body already relishing the decadent cloth and his mind responding to the wicked thrill of his masculine form donning such feminine fair.  Though he was incredibly turned on, he was still embarrassed, his cheeks flamed red under his freckles and his head remained bowed.  Rhonda kissed up his neck, “You really have no idea, do you?  How completely fucking hot you look like this?”  When Dean failed to answer she wrapped her tiny hand around his wrist and dragged him to the full length mirror hanging on the back of her closet door.   _  
  
  
_ She kissed him full and deep while her fingers worked the length of his cock within the silk panties.  She stepped back and hooked her finger under his chin and brought his head up until he was staring at his own reflection.  The blush of shame in his cheeks had turned to the flush of arousal and it continued down his chest.  He swallowed hard as his gaze traveled down to the garment that had his brain twisted in a struggle between humiliation and excitement.  The silk was stretched around his hips, there was a large wet spot where Rhonda had been teasing him and it made the fabric nearly translucent.  The dark head of his cock peeked out from the waistband, pressed against his navel by the elastic.  “Wanna fuck you while you’re still wearing them,” Rhonda hummed just before capturing his lips in another kiss. _  
  
  
Dean moans as he remembers the feeling of her hot, dripping cunt surrounding him while the soaked fabric remained stretched across his balls.  His fingers curl around his dick still encased in the delicate material, he strokes up and down, hand moving slow and strong.  The precome steadily pulsing from his cock has wet through the panties in an ever-expanding halo, and he works the fluid with his fingers until the full length of his prick is enclosed in damp silk.  It twitches, hardens and lengthens further and on the next upward stroke, Dean’s hand discovers the naked flesh of the scarlet head that has crept above the waistband.   
  
  
As much as he wants to draw this out, he is unable to resist pressing his thumb into his slit and a groan is wrenched from his throat as his hips pump into the touch.  He forces his hand from the tip of his cock, rubbing down the shaft and grasping his balls through the silk and lace.  He massages them in his hand, feeling the weight and enjoying the pressure of his hand against the responsive flesh.   
  
  
His fingers stretch to press into the skin just behind his sac and he moans at the delicious pressure against those nerves.  Dean raises his thigh toward his chest, and he holds his breath in anticipation of his own next move as his blunt fingers trace back further.  The feeling of pressure through soft silk against his hole wrings another moan from deep in his throat.  Dean doesn’t usually bottom, but he is not one to deny whatever pleasure could be found in the flesh.  It was Sam who’d taught him the bliss a well placed finger or two could add to a good blow job.   
  
  
_ “Tell me a fantasy, Dean,” Sam whispered in the dark between kisses.  “Any dark desire you’ve got, I wanna hear it.” _  
  
  
_ Dean paused.  “Nope.”  Kiss.  “Got nothin’.”  Deeper kiss. _  
  
  
_ Sam raised an eyebrow.  That pause had been just long enough to give Dean away. “Come on, De.  There’s gotta be something you’ve always wanted to do.” _  
  
  
_ Dean looked down.  “It’s too messed up.” _  
  
  
_ “More messed up than fucking your brother?’ Sam asked, slanted eyes twinkling.  Dean couldn’t really argue with that and if anyone was going to understand a kink this warped it would be the little brother he fucked regularly.  The little brother he loved in every way possible.  He sighed and went to his bag, bringing the panties out and laying them on the bed in front of Sam. _  
  
  
_ Sam picked up the flimsy article and held it between his large hands.  “You want me to-“  Sam was cut off by Dean shaking his head slowly.  Sam’s brow furrowed for a brief moment before his pink lips made a perfect silent “Oh.”   “Fuck that’s hot,” Sam growled before attacking Dean’s full lips in a searing kiss. _  
  
  
_ His brother had been so turned on by Dean in the pink panties that he’d come in his pants while sucking Dean off, panties pulled to the side, and one of Sam’s long fingers pressed into Dean’s prostate. _  
  
  
Of course that was before.  Before Dean made the deal that sent him to Hell.  Before he came back to find out his brother was fucking a demon.  Before Dean sought comfort in the arms of the angel that had rescued him, and had become his best friend.  His now dead best friend.   
  
  
“Dammit,” Dean curses as his erection flags.  The idea had been to get _out_ of his fucking head.  He draws the elastic and lace band of one leg back as far as it will stretch then lets it fly.  It snaps the tender flesh of his inner thigh and the sting brings tears to his eyes but it also succeeds in bringing him out of his miserable thoughts and making his cock twitch.   
  
  
A press to his balls and a few heavy strokes of his shaft have Dean fully hard again.  He moves his hand to the head and squeezes, he twists and rubs until his palm is slick with his own moisture and then he allows himself to reach his hand into the underwear.  The silk and lycra stretch further to accommodate his hand as he wraps it around the length of his blood-heavy cock.  His eyes flutter shut and he loses himself to a deep moan at the delectable relief of friction on his aching member.   
  
  
Dean twists his wrist on the next stroke down and on the pass back up towards the head he runs his thumb along the vein and presses his finger into the bundle of nerves just below the ridge on the underside of the tip.  A wordless cry is forced from his open mouth as his hips begin to thrust into his hand.  He gets his feet under him and fucks into his hand, adjusting the pressure of his grip.   
  
  
He runs his palm up over the tip, reversing the position of his hand so the strong ring of thumb and forefinger is closer to his body.  The change in his hold is perfect; it’s the way someone else would grasp his cock and half curses fall from his lips between panting breaths.  His other hand slides underneath his prick to caress the damp silk that still clings to his balls.  He rubs his four fingers back and forth over the sensitive underside of his sac and finds the skin between that and his hole.  He presses in, eliciting a groan and an immediate punch of his hips.   
  
  
It’s all so good, and he can feel how his balls are tightening, feels the building ball of tingling tension deep in the base of his belly.  Every nerve ending in his body is ready to explode.  He’s so close, so fucking close, he just needs a little more.     
  
  
Dean bends his hip, bringing his thigh back up and reaches under it, pressing his finger into that spot on his perineum again.  He tosses his head back and moans at the tease of it.  He traces the cleft between his cheeks through the thin satiny pink of the fabric stretched over his ass and a press over his hole produces a new round of moans and curses.  His body is screaming at him for release and this is exactly what Dean needed; he’s so strung out on the feeling of his own hands pushing himself so far that he couldn’t form a coherent thought if he wanted to.  Only one thing remains in his mind.  His brain can’t even form the word; it’s just completely and desperately chasing that thing that will explode through his nervous system, scream through his body like honey and cayenne.     
  
  
He wraps his other hand back around a cock that’s so blood-filled it’s a shade of red close to purple.  His strokes have no finesse left in them, they’re fast and hard and he just _needs_.  His mouth babbles of its own accord, his brain still too lost to make the words, “Gonna,” he pants.  “Fuck, gonna come.”  And as if his tightly-strung body just needed a reminder of the end goal, his orgasm rips through him.     
  
  
He shouts, muscles in his neck straining with the force, face red, his hips thrust and then his cock is shooting hot thick ropes up his body.  With the force of an orgasm more intense than he can recall from memory at least several years back, the first pearly drops fly so hard they hit the bottom of his chin.  His prick continues to fire and come lands in the grooves of his abdomen, over his pecs and as his dick blurts out the final pulses, Dean’s body jerks with the aftershocks.  His breath returns in gasps and huffs and his body collapses against the pink blanket underneath him.    
  
  
For ten blessed minutes, Dean’s mind is blank and his body lax.  He lies on the bed and breathes, a breeze rippling the lace curtains beside him as the late afternoon sun filters through and creates shadows over his freckled come-specked skin.  The respite is precisely what he had been searching out, and the relief of being void of looping thoughts and guilt is welcome.  Dean soaks in every second of this as readily as he did the sensual pleasure it took to get here.   
  
  
Slowly his brain begins to spin the same vortex of depleting notions and emotions and Dean sighs heavily.  He sits on the edge of the bed taking one last moment to breathe deep, then stands and slips the silk panties off, swiping the pink swath of material over his torso in a shoddy clean-up job.  He balls them up and stuffs them back into the deepest corner of his bag, then dresses slowly.   
  
  
He makes his way back out of the house, locking the door back up behind him.  He tosses his duffel in the trunk and sits in Baby’s driver’s seat.  This is no magic cure all, but for the first time in weeks, Dean feels ready to face his current hell-on-earth predicament.  The release of his few moments of stolen solitude refueled him.  He lovingly taps the steering wheel and a faint smile reaches his lips as he revs the engine and points the Impala back toward Bobby’s house.


End file.
